


Wings of Artemis

by Thatlassiegotglassed



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Gladiator AU, Rumbelle - Freeform, Spartacus AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatlassiegotglassed/pseuds/Thatlassiegotglassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A once proud general sold and destined to die in the arena now finds himself a gladiator on the sands. She is his domina, above his station and off limits. But together they might be able to save his son, and escape the shadow of monstrous men who believe in nothing. (FOR THOSE CONCERNED ABOUT THE CHARACTER DEATH--Rumple/Belle will make it out alive. I promise you this and that's all I'm saying)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SORRY FOR THE GIANT ASS AUTHORS NOTE BUT IM GETTING IT OUT OF THE WAY NOW. What you are getting into: This is a Once Upon a Time AU set to the tune of Spartacus: Blood and Sand. Much of the plot will be the same so if you figure out what character of Once is standing in for what character of Spartacus and you have seen the show please do not put any spoilers in the comments. That is not fair, allow everyone to enjoy equally. The main pairing of this fic will be focused around Rumbelle but I do promise other pairings from OUAT to have a healthy presence. (i.e. Snowing, Frankenwolf, Hook x Milah, Swanfire, Graham x Emma, Hook/The Floor etc. etc.) That last one was a quip.  This is intended to be a three part series. I have made some sub-plots my own and things are always subject to change. I do not own Once Upon a Time or the Starz Original Series: Spartacus: Blood and Sand.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Sword collided with sword. The metal of a mans blade ate at the flesh of another in a cloud of sand and blood as the crowd cheered loudly enough to be heard by the gods themselves. People shouted in tongues, held their fists in the air and demanded more from the horrendous show at their feet.

Belle turned away as another man fell to his knees, begging for mercy as his throat was slit.

“Squeamish, my love?” Gaston took her hand and kissed her knuckles gently, chuckling at her discomfort.

She nodded, continuing to avert her gaze—the sounds were enough to fuel her imagination. She found comfort in moving her hand fan faster and letting the lukewarm breeze wash over her.

“Ruby.” Gaston snapped his fingers and a leggy brunette appeared at his side with a small goblet of water—which he gave to his wife. “Better?”

Any response she might have had was cut off as the empress jumped to her feet and cheered along with the crowd. No doubt someone had lost their head.

“I love this game!” Regina called and grinned from ear to ear, lips as red as the blood upon the sand. Belle thought she might vomit. Normally, the games weren't an issue. Thanks to Gaston she had been around them enough to learn the tricks of calming her stomach. But the heat mixed with the less than satisfying water was too much. After the worst summer in a decade, the whole city would have sold their soul for a night of rain.

Regina placed her jewelery laden hands on the edge of the pulvunis, the private box that only the most noble watched the games from, and spoke softly.

“Killian--”

The general looked up, ripped from what appeared to be deep thoughts. “Yes?”

“Bring out the prisoner.”

As the bodies of the losers were dragged from the arena, the crowd quieted to a dull roar. The look of satisfaction on Killian's face caused Belle's stomach to knot all over again. When she looked to Gaston for answers, he merely shrugged. Whoever stepped from that gate was about to die a terrible and gruesome death.

* * *

 

**_Two Weeks Earlier_ **

Tilling dirt was one of the most rewarding experiences. It was honest man’s work; it filled ones soul and eventually filled ones rumbling stomach. The day was young and the sun had barely crested the hill. Rumplestiltskin took a deep breath of the crisp, clean air and smiled to himself. Land as far as the eye could see and it finally belonged to him. His farmland was outside the edges of the city, rolling hills dipped and joined together in one large valley that was protected from the winds of the north seas. It was spring and he had chosen his favorite spot to start his garden.

On the small mound of land due west of his home, too small to be called a hill but too large to be mistaken for a simple pile of mud, a lone tree stood, rooted firmly and gnarled by years of weathering. That tree stood for life, his life; it was by that tree that he had met Bae’s mother and after her passing his boy was now his whole world. It seemed fitting that starting his garden, his first act after leaving the emperor’s army, was to be put under that tree.

He ran his fingers over the carving of the tree marking where Bae’s mother now lay. He missed her but had made peace with the gods for taking her; Bae needed him, they needed each other and that was what was important.

“Papa.”

He looked over his shoulder at his son, as the younger man topped the hill at a run. His dark hair a mess as usual, eyes wide and lips parted with words fresh on his tongue.

“Papa, the soldiers are here. They need you in the village.” Bae said with a long intake of breath. Rumplestiltskin sighed and looked once more to the carving in the tree before picking up his plowing stick and shaking his head.

“That’s not my life son. Not anymore.” He answered grimly as he began busying himself with the upturning of the earth at his feet. Since he was a young man, the call of battle had been his greatest temptress. Swords and steeds, battle cries and strategy were his calling for many years and he had loved every second of it. Only when his son was born did his life of danger begin to slow and once Jupiter had taken his beloved, well, it had stopped completely. He had turned in his sword, half a life time before that of his fellow men and had hung his shield on the hearth along with his memories of long forgotten victories.

“They're not leaving,” Bae twisted his hands anxiously. “They're speaking about the war, Papa. What if they draft the village—the children?”

Rumplestiltskin stopped and leaned his rake against the tree. This couldn't happen. No, he wouldn't let it happen. The Legatis and his army could take their war and bloodshed somewhere else and he would see to it. He picked up his cloak and walked down the hill at a canter with his son by his side. Once having held rank in the war against the mountain savages, the village trusted him, gave him enough position that he could advise but he wasn't troubled by council meetings or counting of the gold. He would do what he could for the children of the town but Bae was his first priority. The empire would get his son in their ranks over his own dead body.

The small enclosed square in the center of the city was crowded. Men stood shouting over one another as the women lingered by the wall and fountain and watched, keeping careful eyes on their little ones. The Legatis stood on the small dais in the center of the crowd and tried to have his voice heard over the angry towns people.

“Everyone, everyone, calm yourselves.” With an extended arm, he called for order and it worked to a certain extent.

Rumplestiltskin moved his way through the masses until he was in a proper range to speak with the officer and the other council members of the city.

Killian Jones was as handsome as he was pompous. His red cloak was made of material no one in this city could ever dream of owning, let alone wearing where it could collect mud and dirt from daily travel. His breast plate was a shiny copper that lit his face with the setting sun—a strong face, with ebony hair and facial scruff to match. In the country only the very poor did not shave, but in the capitol it was becoming a trend and Killian was certainly taking part.

“The mongrels in the north are rising up again. It is only a matter of time before they are knocking on your very doors.” He moved his cloak behind his shoulder and continued. “The Empire offers itself to--”

“Yeah and the last time Rome so graciously offered her help it wiped out half our numbers. You've pushed into our lands, now you offer your help—hand extended?”

One of the older men in the front of the crowd yelled out and the cheers of agreement rang true. Killian lowered his hand and said something to the lieutenant at his side before forcing his face to remain pleasant.

“The last war was unfortunate. But this time we are prepared. This time we both want the same thing.” He reached back and grabbed a scroll before handing it to the council elder. “Align yourself with Rome and I can promise you we will give you what you desire.”

The yelling started again as the aged man took the parchment and Rumplestilskin spoke above the crowd, “And what would that be!” The people quieted slowly and turned to the retired soldier. “And what,” he cleared his throat as he repeated himself, “would that be?”

Baelfire shifted by Rumplestiltskin's side and he touched his arm in reassurance. He was not afraid of these metal plated men—that's all they were anyway—men.

Killian watched him with dark blue eyes, fierce as the sea he rode in from and memorized his face. The face of the man who dared to question him. “Victory,” he said flatly. “For both of us.”

“We've handled the ogres before. They've burned our cities, raped our women and murdered our children. And where was Rome?” Rumplestiltskin pressed. “If we fight with you, then our purpose must be clear.”

“And that would be?” Killian raised an eyebrow to the sky and crossed his arms.

“The ogres dead--” he paused and mirrored the general's stance. “All of them.”

Killian observed the angry towns people and had suddenly lost faith in the handful of men he had brought into the city. How dare this lowlife question him? He nodded once. “Agreed. Dead. All of them.”

* * *

 

Rumplestiltskin walked into his dirt floor, one room shack to find his son kneeling by the fireplace—eyes closed in deep though. As the door shut, Bae spoke.

“So the council has decided?”

“We have,” Rumplestiltskin took off his cloak and set to work on unlacing his moccasins. “We go to war.”

Bae heaved a heavy sigh and rose. It was foolish to argue, both knew it. He handed his father his sword hesitantly. “I asked the gods to bless your sword.”

He took the blade from his boy and turned it over gently, admiring its glint in the firelight. How he wished he could take the hurt from Bae's eyes. He wished that he wasn't a man of his word and he could tell the Romans to go fuck themselves. But everyone knew—to challenge Rome was a death wish.

“Once the ogres have been eliminated—I'll have no need of a sword.” He said sheepishly as he propped it against the wall.

Bae laughed, short and bitter. “And what would my father do without it in his hands?”

“Farm. Drink and watch you raise my eventual grandchildren.”

“Papa,” Bae groaned. “Be serious.”

The silence fell between them. One idly stoking the fire while the other whittled a small chunk of wood into kindling. It was uncomfortable and Rumple couldn't help but still his hands and watch his only child. Bae was a good foot taller than he was now. Dark hair and dark eyes—just like his mother. With a wit and a sharp tongue to rival that of his old man. They scraped by and dreamed of bigger and better things—it all amounted to very little, but at least they had each other.

“I dreamed this you know,” Bae looked up. “Before Killian's men even came.”

Rumpletiltskin fought not to roll his eyes. When it came to the gods and superstition, his wife had warped the boy's mind. Personally, Rumplestiltskin wanted nothing more than to piss on the gods—they had never done him any favors. He stayed quiet and let his son continue.

“I dreamed you went to Rome. And do you know what I saw?”

“What?” He tried to look interested but was almost sure he was failing.

Bae swallowed hard, looking at the fire and prodding the embers with a long stick. “I saw my father on his knees—before a great red serpent. Papa, if you go to Rome—you are destined for great and unfortunate things but--”

Rumplestiltskin couldn't stand it anymore. He dropped to the floor beside Bae and grabbed his shoulders gently. “Stop—stop. The ogres worship the wolf—they place no faith in snakes. I promise, I will come home.”

Bae hugged him tightly, nodding and biting his lip. As much as it pained him to leave Bae behind, they both understood, should something happen, no one could run the town like the son of Rumplestiltskin.

“Kill them all.” Bae said quietly as the fire popped softly in the distance.

* * *

 

Rumplestiltskin didn't sleep. And now huddled in his cloak, standing in the dark and waiting on the general—his mood was not improving. Bae had gotten up early to see him off and now sat hunched on a stump, fighting back yawns. The men were growing restless. Swords and straps were readjusted, others paced and only a handful gave a voice to their annoyance. Finally, the sound of hooves reached their ears and Killian trotted from the early morning shadows.

“Ah, yes,” Killian pulled up on the reigns. “So glad you made it.”

Rumplestiltskin snarled. Bae touched his arm and his anger faded. His son took off his necklace and dropped it over his father's head. It was a simple thing—a small strap of leather, knotted in the middle, but it made his heart feel as if someone was crushing it inside their fist.

“I'll make sure everything is ready for your return.” Bae said as they broke apart from their hug.

He nodded, turning his back as Bae walked away, out of the way but still close enough to watch.

“I will wait for none of you. If we start now then at nightfall we can make camp. Don't fall behind.” Killian barked and turned his horse.

Rumplestiltskin's brows furrowed in confusion. “Legatis?” Killian paused. “I believe you're going the wrong way. We should march West—to intercept the ogres.”

“You're right. But first--” he smirked. “We go East. To challenge Mithridates.”

Rumplestiltskin felt his blood begin to boil. Mithridates was not a threat to his people. The only threat the other general posed was to Killian and his ego. “If we go East, to help in your power play—that leaves my people unprotected from the real threat. And that is not what I signed up for.”

“Well you see,” Killian walked his horse beside Rumplestiltskin and looked down. “You aligned yourself with Rome. And I am her body and voice. You will do as I command.”

“But my people--”

“I don't care about your people. We march East.”

The wind had quieted as everyone waited with baited breath while the opposing captains held their ground. A few men from each side drew their swords and Rumplestiltskin looked away first to calm his men. He opened his mouth to tell them all to stand down and Killian's stallion reared.

The beast pawed the air, tossing it's rider to the mud and Rumplestiltskin grabbed the flailing reigns with wide eyes. In a matter of seconds, metal clanged against metal, men grunted and the fight had begun. As Killian clambered to his feet, perfect hair hanging in his face, looking deranged, he shouted for order. It was nothing for his highly trained men to subdue the less than adequate warriors of the village and he waited for the noise to quiet before turning on Rumplestiltskin.

“How dare you?” He growled, drawing his sword and shoving it under Rumplestiltskin's chin.

Rumplestiltskin dropped the reigns and stood his ground. “Killian--”

“I am your Legatis!” Killian roared, pushing the sword further just enough to nick the skin above his Adams apple.

“Legatis--” He tried again. It had been a misunderstanding. Nothing more than poor timing. But Rumplestiltskin suddenly felt he had started a war that he did not want to finish.

Killian breathed heavily, wisps of cold air blowing from his nostrils like an angry dragon as he glanced at his own men, moving his neck in a choppy fashion that must have hurt. “You will pay for this.”

Rumplestiltskin started forward and Killian brought the handle of his sword down sharply on his jaw. He fell on all fours practically on top of Killian's boots. His face ached sharply as he tried to steady his now blurry vision. How had things gone this wrong? He had to stop this. Had to make the Legatis see reason. But his reasonable thoughts diminished as Killian spoke again.

“Take the boy.”

“No!” He yelled for Bae, and his son returned his agony as the guards pulled them farther apart. He tried to get to his feet but Killian brought his boot down hard on the front of his face and everything went black.


	2. The Great Red Serpent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumplestiltskin is sentenced to die upon the sands but might be spared by an unlikely alliance.

Chapter 2: The Great Red Serpent

Killian was hot, his cloak stuck to him in the most unpleasant way and he ripped it from his shoulders and hurled it to the ground. The stack of scrolls and the ink well on the table were not safe from his wrath as he used a large hand to shove it all to the floor. With a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders and composed himself.

On the balcony, through the whispering silk curtains, he saw the outline of a tall, curvacious creature—one he desired to see more than anything. He stood behind her, sweeping her dark curls to one side and dipping his hand down the curve of her neck.

“Killian,” she gasped as she turned and clutched him. Hands cupped his face as she captured his lips and barely gave him time to breathe.

“What if I had been an assassin?” he joked against her mouth, arms winding around her. She laughed, clear and soft before showering his cheeks and jaw with affection as well.

“Regina's here, to speak about tomorrow. But stepped away for the moment,” she cautioned as he undid the knot on the front of her dress.

“Is she? Well that's plenty of time--”

“She's not happy with you.”

He froze, eyebrows drawing together as he released her to refasten her clothes. He bit the inside of his cheek, wondering what could bring about and more importantly defuse the Empress' rage. “And what about you, Milah?”

“I missed my husband, terribly,” she said putting his face between her hands. “But, fear your return has come too quickly.”

Killian watched her face fall and pulled away, placing his hands on the stone of the balcony that overlooked the city. “The games Regina is putting on, they start tomorrow?”

“That's why she's here. Putting the last touches on a few preparations.” Milah said as she stroked her nails through the side of his hair.

“I'd like a word with her.” Killian said flatly, scowling at the streets below.

“It--” she let out a breath and continued as gently as she could. “It will take more than that to regain her favor. There are whispers, my love—whispers of your--” she swallowed hard and rephrased. “Mishap, in the mountains.”

That fucking Thracian. Killian's blood began to boil at the mere thought that word had already reached the capitol of how he couldn't handle the likes of an untrained farmer and his village. He felt like a fool.

“I'll fix that.” He mumbled. “Their _whispers_ ,” he spat the phrase and turned his head to look at her. “Won't be heard over the cheers of a crowd.”

“Cheers? And how will you manage that?”

“By giving them something they have never seen,” he raised from the ledge. “Thracian blood, spilled in the arena.” His lips twisted up in a smirk as he thought of Rumplestiltskin and his upcoming demise. No one humiliated Killian Jones and got away with it. Watching the likes of that poor excuse for a soldier lose his head in tomorrow's games would prove it to everyone.

“You brought them back? The Thracians?” Milah smirked as Killian nodded. Her eyes darkened in a way that made Killian's chest tight with affection as she slid her hands up his chest and spoke word of the plan that was already in his head. “Regina does love her games. Win the heart of the crowd and the senate is sure to follow?”

“Precisely.” Killian added. He gripped her by the neck and pulled her flush against his chest to remove the smirk from her lips with his own.

* * *

 

The party was like any other. Burning plates of expensive oils were in every corner and gave the pillars and tiled walls a private, yet inviting glow. The small, rectangular foot-pools in the middle of the hall were filled with water, no doubt carried for miles on the backs of a hundred servants, and rose petals floated on top. The prettiest of servants, adorned with gold circlets and masks of the sacred goddesses, lounged naked in the pools and around the room for decoration, and possibly entertainment.

Regina Mills, Empress of the entire city, let the train of her dress fall to the floor as she raised her arms and addressed her guests. “Good people of Capua,” she flicked her hands and the chimes of her bangles drew everyone's attention to her face. “This year has been most difficult, and I welcome you all to celebrate with food, water, and the gift of blood—spilled in tomorrow's games. Under my reign, know you are not alone.”

Polite applause and agreement came from her speech and Gaston mumbled into his goblet, “Well, she's certainly full of herself now, isn't she?”

“Gaston,” Belle warned and touched his arm.

“Sorry, my dear.” He smiled and leaned over to brush his lips against her cheek. Her face warmed and she fought her smile. The wine on his breath was obvious and she knew all to well how it always seemed to loosen his tongue and his opinions on the Empress. “She's just—awful.” He scrunched his nose and Belle laughed softly.

“If you want the seat in the Senate, you are going to have to deal with her.” Belle said and Gaston set his glass down. “You should be grateful. I spoke with the Empress. She's invited us to sit in the pulvunis tomorrow.”

“You're joking?” Gaston looked at her with wide eyes.

“I never joke,” Belle smiled into her glass.

“Well, well—my wife, always more brilliant than I realize,” He looked at her gently, staring at her quietly until she looked back at him and blushed. It made him smile more.

“Your flattery will get you nowhere.” She smiled and he kissed her cheek again.

“Don't I know it.”

“Gaston!” The Empress called and the room quieted. Belle turned along with her husband to the woman in the center.

“Yes, your grace?”

“What did the noble house of Gaston bring for tomorrow's festivities?”

“Ahh,” Gaston gave Belle's hand a squeeze and left her side, he snapped his fingers and brought in two fierce-looking warriors. “Good people of the city, from my house I give you Mulan, the banshee of Carthage.”

Gaston gestured to his right, so the crowd could gape at the woman. It was rare for a woman to be placed in the arena and not in the house but Gaston knew what he was doing. Dressed in leather sheaths and minimal armor to show off her muscular body, Mulan looked as deadly as she actually was.

“And I also present, Victor, the undefeated Gaul, a true champion in the arena.” Gaston motioned to his left to showcase an equally vicious looking gladiator, with cropped blonde hair. Victor glared at the crowd and flexed his chest by barely moving his arms—a few women swooned.

Regina nodded her praise, “Thank you, Gaston. I'm sure they'll both do well, tomorrow.”

“Go back outside and wait for me,” Gaston said sternly to Victor and he nodded before following orders.

Regina waited for the talking to settle before speaking again, “And now, on his return from the savage lands of Thrace, I welcome the Legatis, Killian Jones and what he brings for tomorrow's main event.”

Belle watched as the Legatis marched in a handful of prisoners. She set down her goblet, the wine leaving a sour taste in her mouth as the general and his men forced the ratty, sludge covered Thracians to their knees.

He talked up his prisoners in a way that brought shame to Gaston's offering to the games and Belle could feel her husband fuming beside her.

“That man's only station is through his wife's good name.” Gaston popped a grape into his mouth and chewed like the fruit had given him a personal grievance.

“Be still,” Belle warned as the prisoners were dragged from the hall and the Empress' hugged Milah.

“That snake of a woman has her hand in all the proper assholes. She wiggles her fingers and everyone shits gold.”

“Don't be crude!” Belle hushed him and took his goblet, she looped her arm through his and turned him forcefully as Killian approached.

Killian was dressed to impress, brass breast plate freshly polished and and sword gleaming in his sheath. His face was smug and Belle felt her nails dig into Gaston's arm before he even spoke.

“Ahh! Legatis,” Gaston gave a short bow of his head. “I was just marveling at your property.” He gestured to where the Thracians stood before and gave one of the least genuine smiles Belle had ever seen.

“As I marvel at yours.” Killian sipped from his glass and gazed down the length of Belle's body.

“Excuse you?” Belle said, letting go of Gaston.

“Watch yourself, Killian.” Gaston continued with his well-practiced smile. “Tomorrow's games should be a delight,” He quickly changed the subject and put his arm around Belle gently. “We will see you bright and early—the Empress has invited us to sit in the pulvinis.”

“Has she now? With such unimpressive stock—how much did that cost you?” Killian laughed, a short bark of mockery before nudging Gaston's shoulder. “I'm only joking, mate. Tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow.” Gaston gave a short bow.

“My lady.” Killian bowed to Belle before sweeping his cloak to the side and going off into the mingling crowd.

“One day,” Gaston said quietly, gripping his goblet hard enough his fingers turned white. “I shall see his heart parted from his arrogant chest.”

“And--and I shall grip the knife,” Belle whispered, raising up to brush her lips against his cheek. The words made Gaston's shoulders relax as he looked at her. Even if he knew his darling wife would never have blood on her hands, he loved hearing her speak that way--especially when it came to Killian Jones.

* * *

 

**_The day of the games_ **

The stomping of the crowd above him caused sand to sift through the cracks. Rumplestiltskin kept his head down so none of it would get into his eyes. His hands shook in their shackles as he thought of what awaited him outside the door of his cell.

He had spent countless days and nights in the belly of a ship as the Romans transferred himself and a handful of his people from Thrace to the Capitol. Still damp, and reeking of salt water, death and shit, he clenched his fists until he thought they would break. He still had no idea what had become of Bae and one by one his brothers fell in the arena above him.

Blood dripped through the wooden boards and he scrambled out from under it as a few drops landed on his face. There was another roar of the crowd and Rumplestiltskin fought not to vomit the bile in his empty stomach.

“Thracian!” A voice barked as the door to his cell swung open and he was hauled to his feet. He feebly tried to rip his arms from their grasps, seeing the corpses of mutilated slaves along the corridor of holding cells.

“No, stop,” he said. “My son--” The guard guided him up the ramp and stopped outside the iron bars of the arena to unlock his shackles. The people in the stands were deafening as a poor excuse for a sword was shoved into his hands and he was pushed onto the sands of the arena.

Rumplestiltskin got to his feet slowly, leather handle finding its way into his grasp like it was second nature and his heart began to race once the door slammed shut behind him.

“People of Capua!”

He looked to the balcony and could barely make out a woman, in rich robes of purple and gold, extending her arms to her audience. Her dark hair was piled high onto of her head in an intricate halo of curls and metal fragments that reflected the sun as much as the other jewelry on her body.

He thought of the night before, paraded in front of dozens of women who looked just like her, who gorged themselves on fruit and drink and glittered more than any he had seen in his homeland. Last night he had seen many wonders and as he watched one of his brothers dragged from the dirt in a trail of blood, he figured he would never see such wonders again.

Regina continued. “As always, we've saved the best for last. I give you, your Thracian traitor.” The crowd booed and she smirked.

Rumplestiltskin watched closely as a well armored man entered the arena and stood opposite of him. As he gripped his short sword and dug his ripping, cloth-sandles into the dirt, it hardly seemed fair. He jerked his head in multiple directions as the doors opened on either side of him and out walked another handful of soldiers. They carried spears, nets and one even held an ax and they smirked as he turned panicked circles in the sand—he was to fight them all.

Belle gripped Gastons hand and fanned herself so hard, her hand fan flew from her wrist. She felt sick as Ruby bent to gather it and turned from the scene in the arena. “This does not seem fair. Surely--”

“It's not about what is fair, my lady.” Killian sneered. “He is to be humiliated—that is all.”

“Gaston--” She tried and he shook his head, refusing to look at her.

“What would you like me to do?” He said, helplessly and she quieted.

Rumplestiltskin's heart sank as the woman in the pulvunis yelled 'begin' and the crowd was on its feet. The men came at him, teeth bared and weapons at the ready and he took them all in stride. Arms and legs riddle with fatigue and weeks of scraps at sea his reflexes were slow and his back bowed with every blow and jab.

He sliced, he slashed, he did all he could for each breath as he managed to take down one of them with a slash to the throat.

“Is that all you got, you Thracian dog?” The larger one said as he held his shield in front of his body.

Rumplestiltskin paused, heart hammering against his chest as his gaze fell to the image on the shield. It was well-worn and crudely drawn but there was no denying it was a large, red, snake.

_'Kill them all.'_

Bae's words rang quietly through his mind and he gripped his sword tightly. He thought of his son being ripped from him, his mind raced with all the things that the Legatis could have done or order his men to do to Bae while he was chained in the middle of the sea. And it was enough. The thought of Bae was enough to propel him forward and knock the shield from the soldier's hands.

His mind went black as he swung and lashed and felt flesh give under the weight of his blade. The cheers and gasps and noise of the people around him only fueled his actions as he littered the dirt woth the blood of men who wanted nothing more than to see him dead at their feet.

When he finally came back to himself the soldiers were at his feet, unmoving and covered in splashes of grit and blood. One slowly crawled for the door, away from Rumplestilstkin and he was more than happy to put his blade through the back of his neck and help the coward on his way to the afterlife.

With a savage mind and racing pulse, he threw down his sword and was surprised to hear the crowd not screaming but chanting. The chant grew louder with each passing moment as a thousand tongues said in unison, _“live, live, live”._

Regina sat back and laughed, a wickedly pleased howl as she steepled her hands in front of her face. “Well, this was certainly unexpected.”

Milah turned from her enraged husband and gawked at the Empress, “You aren't considering giving into their request, are you?”

“The crowd knows what it wants. And to go against the people is foolish, something you'll learn once you have a position of power.” She snarled.

“He gave me grievance, I will not see him set free!” Killian slammed his fist down on the arm of his seat and Belle jumped.

“Gaston, Gaston do something--” she whispered frantically before she could stop herself.

“A solution perhaps?” Gaston was quick to offer and everyone turned in his direction. Belle didn't expect him to appease her so easily and she lost her grip on his hand as he leaned forward.

“Yes?” Regina tilted her head.

“What if I were to buy him?”

“What!” Killian stood and Regina held her hand up to silence him.

Gaston continued, “I would take him back to my ludus and train him along with my other gladiators. It would please the crowd that he was allowed to live and you would make a small amount of coin from it.”

“No. Absolutely not--” Killian shook his head and Gaston cut him off.

“I've been at this for many years, Killian. I would say he won't last a fortnight once put to the test by the rest of my titans. Everybody wins.”

Regina was quiet for a moment before nodding slowly, a black, polished nail tapping the tip of her chin. “I like it. Well done, Gaston.” She stood swiftly and raised her arms again calling for silence. When the crowd calmed, waiting with baited breath for her orders she tilted her hand and gave a thumbs up.

The applause was enough to shake the walls within the Colosseum, an almost deafening out cry of happiness that put a smile on Regina's lips. Killian stood and stormed from the balcony without another word.

Milah gathered her dress and stopped beside Belle and Gaston, to give them a proper glare. Belle was unaffected, she stared out onto the sands and her heart went out to the nameless Thracian. She may have helped save him from death, but how was that any better than a future in the arena?


	3. Inside the Ludus

Chapter 3:

Rumplestiltskin had been dreaming. He had dreamed of Baelfire and their small cottage, sweet thoughts that had ended in blood and sand-covered bodies. As he rose from his slumber his hand caught on something hard and metal. He was shackled to a wooden bench by both of his wrists as the smell of death and shit filled his nostrils and he opened his eyes in a panic—this was no dream.

“Shh,” a voice whispered beside him as a cloth was pressed to the side of his face. “Be still.”

He remained where he laid and looked to the voice. The voice matched the beauty that was daintily wiping the blood from his temple—gorgeous brown curls framed a soft face and calming eyes. Wherever he was, it was no place for her—this had to be another dream.

“You're safe,” she continued. “If but for a moment.” She added the last part as she looked down, dipping the cloth again. He winced when she started on a large cut above his eye and she pulled back with an apology.

“Who are you?” he said, voice hoarse from too much sleep and nothing to drink since he stepped off of that horrid boat.

She opened her mouth to reply but was cut short.

“Belle!”

Gaston pushed aside the iron bars of the cell door and hurried to his wife. Rumplestilskin noticed the fear in his eyes, tinged with anger as he grabbed her and pulled her away from the likes of him. His hands on her silk-covered arms where incredibly gentle, despite the emotion in his face.

“You shouldn't be here.” He released her and kept his voice even.

“And when do I do as I should?” she said, chin held high in defiance. Rumplestiltskin raised an eyebrow, watching the curious woman speak to her husband in a way that was not Roman-like at all. If he struck her, Rumplestilskin didn't think the shackles were strong enough to hold him down.

Instead, Gaston smiled and used his hand to brush her curls back from her shoulder. “I just want to keep you--”

“Safe. I know. He's chained and Killian's guards are at the door. I'm fine,” she said and Gaston let out a breath, looking much older than he probably was. Rumplestiltskin couldn't help the chuckle that came from his lips.

“Something funny, Thracian?” Gaston snapped and Belle touched his arm.

“Gaston.” One word from her and his disposition changed to something calmer—what a curious couple.

Rumplestiltskin stayed quiet as the man walked over to him. He assumed this Gaston was his new master, that somehow Killian had been tricked out of his revenge. Gaston was almost a head taller than Rumplestiltskin was, with dark hair and grey eyes—he looked more suited for the senate than the sands.

He stayed quiet and sat up tall as Gaston observed him, looked him up and down while Belle stood behind him. Rumplestiltskin felt no shame in letting his gaze slip past to her—she was much easier on his tired eyes.

“Take him to the baths,” Gaston said to his men who were standing in the corner. “And for Gods sake do something about all of that fucking hair.”

The men took off his chains and hauled him to his feet leading him away from his new masters and deeper inside the stone corridors of the Ludus.

* * *

 

Rumplestilskin had been bathed in murky, stagnant water that smelled of sand and felt gritty along his skin. He had been poked, prodded and the worst of his injuries stitched up as he watched the blood and grime from his body drain in the filthy, stone pool. He had protested when the sickly looking medic had brought out a blade and sliced off a good portion of his hair. He liked his hair and didn't want to look anything like the wretched men of the Capitol but in the end he did not have much of a choice.

After what felt like an eternity, he was taken down another hallway and shoved into a large room. A couple torches hung from the walls and gave little lighting over the pools, benches and the dozen gladiators that sat inside. The door slammed shut behind him and every head in the room turned.

“The Gods be damned, you're still alive.”

Rumplestiltskin looked as the Gaul from the party rose out of the bath and stepped into the light. If he remembered correctly, this hulking man's name was Victor. He had cropped blonde hair and eyes like the center of a storm—an old scar sat over the right one. Like many of the men in the room he was stark naked and seemed to be proud of it.

“This is the one then? The Thracian everyone's pissing themselves over?” A dark haired man said from the corner

Rumplestiltskin swallowed the fear that had lodged in his throat since the arena. “I have a name--”

“No one gives a shit who you were, Thracian.” Victor snapped.

“I give no shit to who he is.” Another added.

“What is this place?” Rumplestiltskin added quietly once their laughter had subsided.

“The afterlife, my friend.” The dark-haired man said again. His arms were covered in scars and out of all the men in the pools, he seemed the kindest.

The hand-servant that was oiling Victor's biceps was shoved to the side by the brute before he made his way forward. He clasped his hands in front of him before nodding around the room. “Welcome to the humble house of Gaston. Master of the greatest Ludus in the city.” Cheers of agreement filled the room as Victor walked a slow circle around him.

“Ludus?” Rumplestiltskin asked.

“A school of training,” Victor clarified. “Where men have the chance to become Gods.”

“Live the next few days, pass the test and you just might count yourself among us. You could even bare the mark.” A muscular woman came out of the pool and bared her forearm, branded with a crude looking 'G'. Rumplestiltskin had seen her before too.

“In the meantime,” Victor finished his circle around him and smirked. “Can we get you anything? Food? Water? Scented oils for your feet?”

Rumplestiltskin swallowed hard, the skin of his throat tightening and the sound of water in the stone pools making him thirsty, even though it was probably filthy. “Water--” He started to add a 'please' to the end but was cut off but a roar of laughter led by the man in front of him.

“Oh this one is slow, isn't he?” Victor chuckled deeply.

“What can you expect from a dog of Thrace?” The dark haired woman, named Mulan, picked up a scrap of cloth and tied it around her breasts. Rumplestiltskin stopped but for a moment and stared, no one seemed to care that the woman was inside the Ludus, among the men. “It's a land of dirt,” she paused to lean her arm on Victor's shoulder. “Smells of shit.”

“Yes, except for their women,” Victor smirked and sniffed the air. “They smell of piss and shit.”

Mulan laughed softly with the others and Rumplestiltskin felt his shoulders tighten. His teeth ground down as his jaw locked and his new brothers of the sand made a mockery of his homeland. He heard himself speaking over their laughter before he could think if it was wise. “What are you then?”

“I'm a Gaul. Victor, the greatest of my kind.” He snarled.

“A Gaul?” He looked up and met eyes with Victor. “Then that must be why you smell like a woman.”

The words gave the larger man pause, face slack with surprise before the smile found its way back onto his lips. “Tend your wounds, pup. Gain back your strength and when you've rested--” he leaned in, almost brushing noses with Rumplestiltskin. “We'll revisit that remark.”

As he turned his back, the rest of the men and Mulan seemed to as well. Rumplestiltskin was in a new world of undiscovered horrors and he was completely alone.

* * *

 

Belle stood at the edge of the large, shallow, mosaic pool that was in the center of their greeting room. The opened ceiling allowed for moonlight to cast itself along the pillars and during the more prosperous months, rain would fill it and make the whole villa cool and inviting. Tonight however, was like any other, and after months of this infernal drought, the pool was bone dry.

She pulled the train of her dress over her arm and spoke to the empty pool as her husband approached, “The pool's dry.”

“Yes, we need rain.” Gaston sighed and walked around her.

She followed him, quick to catch up as her servant, Ruby fell in line behind her. “Money would also see it filled.”

Gaston laughed, short and harshly. “We need that too.” He sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced his shoes, pulling the cloth from his feet with such weariness that Belle felt her heart sink.

“It's my fault. Oh, I'm so foolish. Gaston--” She shook her head before placing her head in her hands.

Gaston jumped from the bed and went to her, placing hands on her forearms with a worried look. “What are you talking about?”

“The Thracian. You paid twice what he was worth just to appease Killian. We don't have it. If I hadn't have asked--”

Gaston pulled her to his chest and shushed her quietly, looking over her shoulder at Ruby and nodding to the doorway, “Leave us.”

“Yes, Dominus.” The tall brunette said quietly and slipped through the curtain on the doorway in perfect silence.

Gaston moved Belle back to arms length quietly. One wrist at a time, he removed all her bangles, slowly and tentatively placing them on the dresser. She watched in silence as he did it, waiting for him to speak first.

“Yes, the Thracian was expensive. But did you see him on the sands? I made an investment,” he said gently. He moved his hands up and brushed her hair away from her neck, carefully removing her left earring—his large but surprisingly deft fingers brought a small smile to Belle's face. “An investment in my wife's intelligence, and skill for reading people, and in the Legatis', and his ego. And I am very confident in all three.” He smiled at that, moving to take her right earring.

“The Thracian stands nothing more than a corpse--” Belle started, remembering the fear in his eyes as she startled him hours earlier.

“Which can be fixed with training. If he lives to survive the oath, he'll die in the arena as intended. Eventually.” Gaston shrugged.

Belle blushed and looked away. “But--”

“But nothing,” Gaston took her chin gently and moved her back to face him. “We'll have money again. With the Legatis at our door, his patronage won't be far behind. If I had thought it was a bad idea, I would have told you 'no'.”

“You never tell me 'no',” Belle smiled and shook her head.

Gaston didn't deny it, he couldn't. His love for his wife was unparalleled and they both knew it. He lit the trio of candles on their stands beside the bed for enough light to maneuver around the room. The ones in the halls would either burn out slowly or one of the servants would come up and extinguish them later.

“The Empress seemed pleased with you.” Belle finally broke the silence quietly as she slipped her dress from her body and laid it on the chair. She kept the sheer, knee-length slip on in hopes of getting some relief from the heat. The way the villa was built a breeze normally blew in from the west but it was hardly enough these days.

“She takes joy in anything or anyone that might cause Killian some form of humiliation.” He paused and watched as Belle pulled a box of scrolls from under the bed and selected a few. “Where did you get those?”

“Found them among some of your father's things.” She said as if that answered all of his questions. She pushed down the furs and lounged along the bed, propping a large number of the silk pillows under her arm. Her skin prickled as she felt her husband's lingering gaze. Whenever she talked about scrolls or her joys of thumbing through old parchment, he looked at her curiously like she was speaking a different language. This time however, his look was one of complete fondness. “What?” She asked gently.

He went to her, putting his knee on the bed beside her and leaning over. Before she could protest, he captured her lips and kissed her thoroughly. Belle returned it gently, lips moving against his and a hand going to his cheek automatically. It wasn't until he moved down her neck that she sighed heavily, “Gaston.”

Gaston nosed her head to the side, climbing fully onto the bed and running his hands up the sheer night-dress. Belle grabbed the box of scrolls to keep them from falling off of the bed and jumped when his thumb grazed over her nipple through the material. “Gaston,” she said more firmly and he froze, lips poised against her throat.

“Damn the gods, Belle.” He let out a breath and rolled off of her, flopping on his back and putting his eyes on the canopy above them.

“I was going to read for a little bit.” She said, feeling like she should be apologizing.

“A little bit turns into all night. Every time.” He said exasperated. When he noticed her blush, he rolled on his side and changed his tone. “How are the gods to bless us with children if you're always reading?” His voice was gentle, his smile humorous but, Belle knew part of him was serious. They'd been trying since they'd been married, made offerings to Juno, and yet all of their prayers seemed to fall on deaf ears.

She reached down and squeezed his hand without a word, offering the only solace she could give him. “I'll read them to you?” She proposed and he let out a small and genuine laugh.

“Wonderful, I'll go right to sleep then.”

He settled in her lap, head against her thighs and thumb brushing along the wispy silk at her waist. Belle put her hand in his hair and couldn't deny that his attentions felt more than pleasant. She wasn't like the women of the capitol, she wasn't like the wife of the Legatis, she was odd and considered disobedient but Gaston loved her any way.

They stayed like that for awhile, Belle reading quietly the parts that were dull and falling silent to concentrate when something particularly interested her. She finished a few pieces of parchment and rolled them tightly, placing them back in the box. With a quiet sigh, she leaned down and kissed his forehead, moving slowly to his lips and rousing him from his relaxed state.

“Belle?” He asked gently and she quieted him with her lips. When his hands went beneath her dress this time, she didn't complain.


	4. Pick it Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New faces and new places are added to Rumplestiltskin's new personal hell. And he is saved, yet again, by the curious, blue-eyed, Roman woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it is kind of short, but there are a lot of new characters and visual details happening that I didn't want to overload a chapter. We are picking up speed people. B-)

Chapter 4:

The sun was high in the sky by the time Rumplestiltskin was forced from his cell. The training area of the Ludus was a large scrap of dirt surrounded on three sides by the villa where the trainees ate, slept and were trapped behind the bars, stone walls and armed guards. The third side was open space, nothing more than a giant cliff that ended in jagged rocks and the North sea. There was no use putting bars there, no one would ever escape that way unless their destination was the underworld.

The new batch of slaves formed a line as the gladiators of the house hung on the pillars, leaned on benches and shouted insults their way. Rumplestiltskin ignored them but his jaw tightened when he saw Victor leaning on the far wall, watching them all with eager eyes.

Silence fell as a tall man stepped out of the stone archway and onto the sands. Where the slaves and gladiators wore cloth and bare flesh, he wore shoes and leather armor that molded to his chest and broad shoulders. Nicely trimmed blonde hair went well with blue eyes that had seen hard times.

“What is beneath your feet?” He snapped. Rumplestiltskin's eyes went to the man's hands as he wrapped them tightly around the handle of a long, leather, cattle-whip. No one gave a reply. “Answer!”

“Sand?” A small slave in line beside Rumplestiltskin said quietly and the rest of the men laughed.

Unhappy with the answer, the broad man clasped his hands in front of him. “Victor! What is beneath their feet?”

Victor pushed away from the wall, bare chest puffed enough to catch the sun. Today, he donned finely-trimmed cloths and belts around his waist, fitting his thighs snug enough to stay out of the way when he fought. He looked like a warrior—Rumplestiltskin thought he looked like a mockery. “Sacred ground, Charmi-” Victor paused and corrected himself. “Doctore. Watered with the tears of blood.”

Charming nodded and stayed focused on the recruits. “Your tears, your blood, your pathetic lives—made into something of worth. Now,” he paused and gestured behind him. “Attend your master.”

Rumplestiltskin looked up. Above the far wall of the Ludus was a balcony, inaccessible to the slaves, that lead to the heart of the Villa. The doors opened and Gaston walked out along with the woman from the other night. Belle. He remembered her.

“You have been blessed,” Gaston started, leaning against the railing. “To be in a house so noble. Charming will be your Doctore, your trainer, a past God in the arena. Heed him. Prove yourself to be more than just a common slave and stand among my titans.”

Victor and Mulan gave a cheer and the rest followed. Rumplestiltskin found himself ignoring the words of his new master. It was formal and it was meant to be inspiring but it was false.

Belle stood silent to the side of her husband, silk curls braided down her shoulder complimented the green silk of her dress. One look and Rumplestiltskin knew she was far to lovely for a place such as this.

The cheering ceased as Charming extended a powerful arm and cracked the whip in the air. He curled it back slowly, holding them all in the palm of his hand. “A gladiator,” he started, moving down the line of slaves. “Embraces death. Each time he steps into the arena, he prays it will not be the last.”

Rumplestiltskin picked a spot on the stone in front of him. Perhaps, if he concentrated hard enough he would wake up and this would have all been a horrible dream. But that was too much to hope for.

“Not one of you stray dogs would last a minute on the sands. Except,” he stopped in front of Rumplestiltskin and demanded his attention. “Maybe you.” Whispers came from a few of the men and Charming locked his stance, taking in Rumplestiltskin's dirty and battered appearance. “They came at him and with nothing but a sword, he killed them all. Look at this man. Study him.” Charming gestured before adding, “And know, that he is nothing.”

Sniggers and smirks broke out of the men leaning on the far wall.

“Had Rumplestiltskin faced any of the gladiators here,” Gaston spoke up. “I can assure you his head would have left long before his body.”

Rumplestiltskin felt his shoulders tighten. His hands formed fists as they laughed at his pain, at the blood he spilled days before, at his desperate attempt to return to his son. Death was no laughing matter and everyone in this house treated it as if it were a game.

Charming raised an eyebrow, “The Thracian disagrees? A demonstration, perhaps?” He turned back and said much more gently, “Aurora, practice swords.”

A small, strawberry-blonde female nodded and slipped inside. She wore a simple, cloth dress and a slave collar adorned her neck. With the disposition of a rabbit, her appearance took Rumplestiltskin by surprise.

Charming took the swords from her and threw one at Rumplestiltskins feet. “Pick it up.”

He didn't move. With locked eyes and body, he stared at the taller man in silence. Charming gave the order again and was twice ignored.

“Rumplestiltskin!” He said firmly and cracked the whip out.

Rumplestiltskin threw up his fist and caught the whip around his wrist, letting the end catch in his fingers. It stung, and a fresh wound opened under the leather but he stayed strong. “No. That is not--”

He never finished as Charming yanked back on the whip and pulled him down into the dirt. He caught himself on his hands and knees as the leather fell from his wrist and slithered back into Charming's waiting hands. “Your actions, your life,” Charming said, firm but more gently. “Is what we decide. Now pick it up.”

Rumplestiltskin rose slowly and kicked the wooden sword out of his reach. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gaston and Victor grow rigid in his defiance. Good. He stepped back in line and kept his eyes on the sand.

“Maybe the Thracian requires an advantage to quiet his trembling heart?” Charming added. “Aurora.” This time the small woman brought him a real sword. It was made of thin steel and had a splintered handle but it was steel nonetheless. He threw it at Rumplestiltskin's feet and it stuck in the sand. “Pick it up.”

Rumplestiltskin looked at the sword and weighed his options. If he took down five of Killian's guards in the arena, what made this any different?

Charming turned to Gaston after another moment of silence, “I can do nothing with this one, Dominus. Send him to the mines with the others--”

Rumplestiltskin took his chance and grabbed the sword. He ducked to avoid any counter attack that Charming would have once he noticed the movement and moved to strike. However, his attempt was cut short as a foot came down on his weapon and a knee came up to collide with his face. Victor had moved from the wall to protect his Doctore and he put Rumplestiltskin on the ground faster than he could blink.

“Feeling better are we?” Victor snarled. He kicked the sword towards Rumplestiltskin, fully intent on having the fight he promised the night before.

Rumplestiltskin grabbed the sword and clambered to his feet, sandals slipping as Victor looked at him with hungry eyes. He made a move and glanced away long enough to allow Victor's wooden sword to strike him in the arm.

“Take your eyes off your opponent and you are dead.” Charming said to the men watching the show as he stepped back from the action.

“Come on, pup.” Victor said quietly. He raised his arm as Rumplestiltskin attacked, real sword colliding with the fake one. Rumplestiltskin slashed out and Victor ducked, catching him across the back and bringing him to his knees. His skin stung from the blow and he bit his lip to keep silent, lack of nourishment and sleep making him slow and feeble.

“Allow your opponent your back and you are dead.” Charming barked and looked at Rumplestiltskin in the dirt once again. Victor looked to the balcony and smirked. Rumplestiltskin took the chance and hurled his sword in a desperate attempt to cut the arrogant Gaul. Victor turned and knocked it out of the air with his own weapon.

Rumplestiltskin watched in horror as his metal sword sliced the air and landed against the throat of the small slave. The one that had spoken first, fell to his knees and blood poured from his neck. Cheers and laughter came from the older gladiators as the line of slaves moved back from the body, horrified.

Victor tackled Rumplestiltskin to the ground and put his wooden sword against his throat, rendering him immobile while Charming came over.

“Throw your sword in the arena and you are dead again!” Charming snarled. He looked from the dead slave to Rumplestiltskin, breath coming quickly. “Your foolishness has cost you. Now, plead for your life,” he held up two fingers, showing what he meant. “Two fingers—a sign of weakness and a plea of mercy to the editor of the games.”

Rumplestiltskin swallowed hard, throat moving against Victor's sword. He wouldn't beg, not with this man, not with any of them. The slave had been an accident, he didn't ask for this. He stayed silent.

Charming nodded to Victor. “Bash his skull in.”

“No!”

Rumplestiltskin strained his eyes backwards to see Belle on the balcony, hand on her mouth like she had spoken without meaning to. Her chest heaved quietly under her bodice and she looked at him with those large blue eyes. Everyone else paused and looked to Gaston who had the final say.

“Victor,” Gaston said with warning. He gave a small shake of his head.

Victor moved off of Rumplestiltskin and gave a nod of respect, “Dominus.”

“He tries to kill your best man, and yet, you let him live?” Charming said, eyes still upon Gaston.

Gaston looked from his wife to his Doctore and nodded slowly, “Continue training.”

Rumplestiltskin slumped in the dirt once Victor's weight was removed and had to force his eyes away from Belle.

A slave stepped up as the Dominus and his wife disappeared into the Villa. He extended his hand to Rumplestiltskin and pulled him to his feet. Victor and the other gladiators receded into the shade as Charming gave another crack of his whip.

“Get up,” the slave said as he stood firm.

“Thank you,” Rumplestiltskin said and looked the slave over more closely. He had dark brown hair that curled slightly towards the top, with kind brown eyes and a smile to match.

“Don't thank me,” he chuckled and ruffled his own hair to remove some of the sweat. “You seem to have a death wish.”

They moved to the rack that was filled with practice swords and shields, battered scraps of wood that would serve no purpose had they been in a real battle. He looked away as the dead slave was dragged from the dirt and crumbled by the bars that lead out of the Ludus.

“Rumplestiltskin,” he said solemnly and extended his hand, the only polite thing he could think to do.

The man nodded and shook it quickly. “Graham,” he said with another smile. Rumplestiltskin didn't understand what he could possibly be happy about, but he couldn't help it when the corner of his mouth tilted up in response.

 


	5. Night of the March

They trained for days. Rumplestiltskin hadn't slept in just as long and his body screamed for some kind of relief. It had been years since he served in the wars, but not even that could have prepared him for the torture inside the Ludus.

With heavy logs balanced on their shoulders, the new slaves walked in a small circle—head down and weight crushing their spine, they knew their place. Rumplestiltskin watched his feet in the dirt, as he made the complete circle once again. They had been walking all night and now that the sun had topped the cliffs of the mountain, Charming stepped out onto the sands.

“Stop,” he said simply. The slaves dropped the logs and straightened their backs with groans of fatigue. “You can sleep when you've earned it. Now eat, before the real day starts.”

Rumplestiltskin fell into step beside Graham. It was hot, and his muscles ached, but the promise of warm food was enough to keep him going. Charming stood to the side of the men as they formed a line for the days rations. He wasn't eating, no doubt already done so from a bowl at Gaston's feet, like the obedient dog that he was.

As he watched the unidentifiable slop be poured in his bowl, his spirits sank a little.

“Might as well get used to it,” Graham said, as they moved from the large cauldron of slop and found a wooden bench to sit on. “I've been here a month and everyday,” he poked the lumps in his bowl. “It's the same.”

Rumplestiltskin didn't say anything. He dared to pick up one of the pieces of meat in his bowl, it squished between his teeth like something that had been left in the sun for too long, he spat it out. He watched as the men mingled about and the distinct laughter of the older gladiators could be heard as they came into the atrium--no doubt from a proper nights rest, unlike the new slaves.

“Look at them,” he snarled. “Criminals, scum, no better than their masters. And now, we're no different.”

“Aren't we?” Graham said. His eyes still held a kind disposition, a soft manner that after a month in such a place, Rumplestiltskin didn't understand how he still possessed. He continued, “You survived your own execution. With skills I assume are only had by someone who's seen war. And you put the Gaul in his place, even if it was short lived.” He chuckled quietly and Rumplestiltskin managed a smile.

“And you?” The older man asked.

“I'm worse than all of them,” Graham continued. He may have been outwardly kind, but when the focus shifted to himself, there was a distinct layer of loathing. “I came here willingly.”

Had Rumplestiltskin been holding his bowl, he would have dropped it. “What? Why would--”

Graham shook his head, “Debt. A small amount grown large and out of control.” He shrugged and poked around the mush in his bowl. “If it was just me I had to worry about, it'd be different.”

“You have a family?” Rumplestiltskin asked with wide eyes.

“A Wife and son,” Graham nodded. His smile, however fleeting, was genuine. “Two years here, and my winnings will keep them fed for the rest of their lives. And settle my debts if I'm lucky.”

“What winnings?” Rumplestiltskin asked and Graham gave up on trying to find anything edible in his bowl.

“If you do well in the games, you're rewarded for it,” he continued. “The gods be willing, I can--”

“The gods?” Rumplestiltskin couldn't help himself. Where were the gods when he needed them? When his wife had died? When his son was ripped from his arms? Fuck the gods. “You're a fool.”

“Maybe,” Graham nodded. “But a fool in good company by the looks of it.” He gestured to Rumplestiltskin and they both shared a quiet smile. In a place such as this, a friendly gaze was very valuable.

* * *

 

Charming walked slightly behind Gaston, flanked with two of the house guards at his back. His Dominus was upset. With tight shoulders and clenched fists, he stalked thought the halls of the villa and came up short in front of the pool room.

“How many of them show promise?” he scowled at the dirt that filled the pool and the few ravens that poked around in the sand.

“One, maybe two,” Charming offered. “I can't--”

“They all can't be like you, Charming. That is why I favor you.”

“There weren't any better choices?” The general, hooked his thumb in his belt. Surely the slaves that Gaston had brought home were the worst in all the land.

“Better? Yes. But within reach of my funds? No!” Gaston run a hand through his dark hair and resisted the urge to punch the pillar at his right. Money. It always came back to money, and the fact that he had none. “Why are you complaining and questioning me when you should be doing as I ask?”

Charming gave a moments pause. Lately, Gaston had been like handling an explosive. He may have always been composed around the Domina, but in the heart of the Ludus, he was growing more impatient as the tasks of being a Nobel stretched him thin.

“Killian comes tomorrow,” Gaston sighed. “And hopefully his money with him. Keep them men in line, train what you can and if they fall short,” he looked at Charming with cold, eyes. “Send them to the mines.”

Charming nodded, “Of course, Dominus. Your will, my hands.”

“Save it,” Gaston scoffed and waved him away. He grabbed his cloak and draped it over his arm as he turned on his heel and walked around the corridor. He had one more task, when all he really wanted was to go to bed. He wanted to curl up against his wife and forget the world until it dragged him back kicking and screaming. As he entered the counting room, he knew that wouldn't happen soon enough.

The counting room, or as he liked to think of it as his personal office, his space that no one was allowed in, and where he did his best thinking, was covered in maps, marble busts of all the Lanistas that came before him, and oil lamps. Only one was burning, however, oil was expensive.

A small man stood at his desk, looking over the scrolls. His golden cloak was thrown back over his shoulder and a small circlet topped his greying, brown curls. This man was no king, but sitting on ninety percent of the empires funds, he might as well have been.

“Midas,” Gaston announced as he walked thought the door way. “It's late. What brings you here?”

“Three months of grain that has not been paid for,” he turned on his heel and looked at the younger man. “It's enough to keep a man up at night, wouldn't you say?”

“Three?” Gaston felt his stomach sink. “Are you sure?”

“To the day,” Midas smirked as he handed Gaston a scroll with his figures.

Gaston looked it over. Such a sum, he didn't have it. He barely had enough to feed himself, let alone his warriors beneath the villa. Fuck the gods. He rolled the scroll back up tightly and twisted it beneath his hands. “The games approach. If I could put off the payment until then--”

“Principle plus thirty percent.” Midas said without missing a beat.

“Thirty?” Gaston fought to keep his jaw from gaping. He could slit the man's throat and be done with it now, it sounded like a grand idea.

“Or you could pay me now?” The guards at Midas's back shifted slightly and Gaston grit his teeth.

“Principle plus thirty, after the games--”

“The day after,” Midas said quickly and Gaston nodded. He watched as the debt collector snapped his fingers and he left without another word, his guards in toe. The scroll of numbers fell from his hand and he sank into the nearest stool.

“Dominus?” a small voice said from the doorway.

Gaston turned and saw Aurora. With strawberry-blonde hair, she was the smallest, and probably the prettiest, of all his slaves. She was good to his wife, good to this house, and he wished he could do better for everyone that depended on him.

“Yes?”

“Domina's looking for you,” she said, keeping her eyes to the floor.

Gaston nodded. “Bring me the wine, and tell her I'll be on the balcony.”

* * *

 

Belle had been pressed against the stone wall of the counting room listening to the interaction between her husband and the debt collector. She heard the tightness in his voice, the worry in every syllable, things that could only be noticed after many years of marriage. She watched the flickering of the oil lamp as it cast her husband's shadow on the patterned wall of the doorway and knew there were many things he still didn't tell her.

She had prompted Aurora to draw him from the room, let him know she was looking for him. He didn't have to do this alone, but that was his choice.

As she slipped though the curtains of their chambers and down the corridor, she saw him on the balcony overlooking the Ludus, right where he said he would be.

He leaned forward on the wooden railing, shoulders hunched and giving his back a much needed rest. She let her hand trail up his spine as she whispered against his hair, “It's late.”

He looked at her and relaxed slightly. “I know. Go back to sleep.”

“In a minute,” she defied him and he smiled slightly. She took the cup from the railing and raised it to her lips. “We need better wine,” she said as the tangy liquid caused her to cough slightly.

“We need many things,” Gaston said, watching as his new slaves marched in a slow circle to the persuasion of Charming's whip.

Belle looked away from the pathetic shuffling of the overworked men. “That's barbaric,” she protested quietly.

“It's tradition,” he replied. “Each man must suffer the training before taking the mark of our house.”

_Your house_. Belle thought to herself. She would end such practices if she had more of a say in what happened under this roof. The eyes of the Thracian landed on her and she felt her heart flutter, if but for a moment. He faltered at her gaze and it earned him a snap from Charming's whip. Belle looked away.

“Is everything set for tomorrow?” Gaston said. “We can't afford to--”

“I've taken care of everything,” she said, carding her fingers through his hair. “We've done all we can, it's in the hands of the gods, now.”

Gaston laughed, a short, bitter bark as he looked to the starry skies. “Do not fuck me.”

Belle rolled her eyes and kissed his temple. “Hush. Come to bed,” She turned and started back towards their bedroom. The wind brushed the sheer nightdress around her hips and she held it in place before looking over her shoulder. “And bring that awful wine with you.”

* * *

 

A week now they had marched in their pathetic circle. Day and night, night and day, training until their hands bleed and their limbs weakened. Rumplestiltskin was fairly sure he had stopped sweating days ago, water was a rare commodity, while dehydration was abundant among the men.

When Charming gave the command to stop and have breakfast, each man groaned and dropped their planks with a system of thuds on the sand.

“Oh, fuck me,” Graham groaned as he dropped the large board from his shoulders. “Now we train all day?”

“Still think every man stands a chance?” Rumplestiltskin asked, rubbing his lower back.

“Mostly,” Graham gave a small smile.

“Still a fool,” Rumplestiltskin teased and they walked across the training yard to the awning where the slaves lounged and took their daily meal.

Mulan moved the cook to the side and took the large ladle in her hand. Stirring the pot of slop as Rumplestiltskin and Graham approached the table. Her dark eyes held compassion for the first time, and the look made Rumplestiltskin pause. It was an odd sight.

“I remember marching the circle every night. You must be hungry?” She gave a fleeting glance to Victor who was already stuffing his face before a grin overtook her lips. “Here, eat.” As Graham held out their bowls she shoved the pot in the floor and the morning's porridge went across the stone.

Victor and the other gladiators laughed, as their bowls were already filled to the brim with rations way beyond what the recruits were allowed. Rumplestiltskin growled but remained silent.

“Mulan,” a dainty voice snapped and the warrior turned to receive a look of disappointment from her lover. Aurora stalked off in anger before the other woman could protest.

The two men stooped and tried to salvage what the could. Scooping the soupy grains that hadn't touched the ground into their bowls as their stomachs continued to rumble. Graham flicked his hand hard to get the slime off of his skin, before giving up entirely and flinging the wooden bowl to the ground.

“Wake me up when it's time to die again, yeah?” he said before walking off to slump in the shade and rest his tired body.

Rumplestiltskin stood slowly, watching as the gladiators filled their bellies and the lesser slaves hungered in the shade. It twisted his heart, made him angry. He wanted to grab Victor by his arrogant head and pound it into the table until he learned to respect his fellow man.

His fists clenched at his side and someone grabbed his arm.

“Apologies,” a deep voice said as he turned around. “Mulan can be a bit cruel when the little one turns her gaze. Comes with having to prove herself.”

“Who are you?” Rumplestiltskin looked the man over. He was lean, with dark skin and hair cropped close to his face. His right leg was in a leather brace, it looked painful.

“Call me Sydney,” he said with a sly grin. He placed a small loaf of bread against Rumplestiltskin's chest.

“You would give me your bread?” Rumplestiltskin asked.

“Mine?” Sydney laughed and gave him a look like he was a small child that understood nothing. “No.”

“No,” Rumplestiltskin gave it back. “I will be in no one's debt.”

“Keep it,” Sydney insisted. “Consider it an investment. I am a tradesman, a slave that carries words and items back and forth between these walls.”

“Gaston allows you to leave?” he asked with shock.

“You are missing the point,” Sydney continued, boasting his own talents. “Whatever you need, Sydney provides, for a small coin.” Rumplestiltskin continued to stare at the bread in confusion so the man continued. “Victor stands to lose a great sum if you win in the coming games. I would see that happen. Eat, keep your strength, and bear the mark of the brotherhood. Knock that Gual off of his throne.”

Rumplestiltskin didn't want to be between another gladiator and their hatred for the Gaul. He was in enough trouble on his own, but as the man limped away,he took the bread with gratitude.

He ripped it in half and crouched down where Graham was resting in the dirt. The younger man woke with a jolt as the bread landed on his chest. His brown eyes grew wide as he looked between his friend and the food before ripping off a section and shoving it between his lips greedily.

“Where did you get this?” he spoke around the food as the pains in his stomach lessened as soon as the bread crumbled between his teeth. He shut his eyes and savored it.

“Apparently my odds are improving,” Rumplestiltskin smiled as he took a bite of the bread himself.

Graham looked up as two of the house guards approached. He hid the bread slightly before looking back to his friend. “I'm afraid they're about to worsen.”

Rumplestiltskin dropped the food as the guards grabbed him by the arms and hauled him away from his friend and back into the depths of the ludus.  


End file.
